


North Star

by speakingwosound (sev313)



Series: Celestial Navigation [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda (Broadway Cast) RPF
Genre: Alternate History, M/M, famous au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 19:16:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9005161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sev313/pseuds/speakingwosound
Summary: In getting everything he's ever wanted, Leslie's lost himself.
Or the one where Leslie's a superstar and he finds Lin anyway.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [holograms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/holograms/gifts).



> Written for holograms for Yuletide 2016. Thank you for your wonderful request – I hope this is what you were looking for!
> 
> This fic is part of a series, but can certainly be read separately. The series is my take on the multiverse. I took one point in Leslie's history - the offer to move to LA in 2003 for a guest appearance in _CSI: Miami_ \- and wrote divergent histories from that point. The first fic – Polaris - looks at an alternate history where Leslie turned down the offer to make a go at a theatre career in New York. This second fic looks at an alternate history where Leslie moved to LA for the CSI gig, then his career took off for superstardom. Both alternate history lead to Lin and _Hamilton_ , anyway. 
> 
> In this fic Nicolette is Leslie's best friend and manager. She is lovely and wonderful and I mean her no harm in writing this fic.

"Leslie Odom, Jr.!"

"Oh my god, is that him? Is that really him? I can’t see-"

"Leslie will you sign my iPod?"

"We love you, Leslie!"

Leslie slips a pair of discreet earplugs into his ears before he steps out into the crowd that’s gathered outside the _Brothers'_ studio lot. He smiles and nods, popping the cap off a sharpie and signing his way down the rope line until his manager tugs at his elbow.

"We’re sorry, but that’s all the time Mr. Odom has this morning," she tells the crowd to a loud groan of disappointment.

"Thanks," Leslie tells her as they cross the studio threshold and he can pull the earplugs out. "Were their more people today than usual?"

"They know it’s your last season." Nicolette doesn’t look up from her phone as she walks. "Matt’s waiting for you."

Leslie groans. "What for?"

Nicolette stops. "If you’re not going to read the emails I send you, then I can just stop-"

"No, no," Leslie says, quickly. "I appreciate all you do for me."

She nods. "That’s right."

"So, Matt?"

"He wants to discuss your next move. Between me and you, I think you have a lot of bargaining power."

"Sure," he agrees reluctantly, but he can’t shake the feeling of unease as they enter Matt’s office.

Matt’s sitting behind his desk, dressed in ripped jeans and toe shoes from the waist down and a fitted button-down from the waist up. He greets them enthusiastically, with handshakes and back-slaps, as he joins them at the long oval table in the center of his office.

He folds his hands in front of him and grins. "I’m sure you know why you’re here. The show is wrapping in a couple of weeks, but that doesn’t mean we’re letting you go. I- We’d like to keep you with the Network."

Leslie nods, wishing that he’d kept up with his emails so that he’d know what’s coming next. "I’ve loved my time on _Brothers_ , so I’m certainly open to it."

"Great to hear." David wring his fingers together. He’s nervous; Leslie feels a bit more at ease. "Our lawyers are still ironing out the details, but what we’re thinking is a guest-spot on The Voice this winter, in preparation for a fulltime chair in the fall. Christina Aguilera is leaving after this season, and the seat’s all yours."

Leslie's stomach drops to his toes as his smile rises, forced and insincere, to his face.

"Chemistry test permitting, of course, but I don't foresee that being a problem."

"Of course." Leslie keeps smiling. And smiling. And smiling. "I'll give it some serious thought."

Matt twists his fingers harder together. "Is there something else you’d rather be doing? We thought you’d jump at the change for that kind of national exposure."

"Oh, yeah, of course. I mean, any actor would be happy with The Voice." Leslie tightens every muscle in his body to keep himself from fidgeting. "It’s just that I’ve never seen myself doing reality TV."

Matt’s posture softens in relief. "Oh, well, sure, but The Voice isn’t really reality TV. It’s a competition show. Besides, you’d be on during the Knock Out rounds. The whole thing will be taped. You'll have final editing approval."

"It’s not the live part I have an issue with. I grew up on live theatre."

"Sure, sure, we all did." Matt grins. He’s now tapping his fingers against the wood of the table. "Anyway, we think it would be great exposure for the new album. Fortuitous timing, as they say in the biz."

"Well-" Leslie grimaces, ready to argue everything from Matt’s use of 'the biz' to his misuse of 'fortuitous' to the actuality - or, really, non-actuality - of his album.

Nicolette lays her hand on his forearm, digging her nails into his skin.

He winces and closes his mouth.

"Thank you Matt. You’ve given us a lot to think about." She stands, pulling Leslie with her.

"Great!" Matt crosses back over to his desk. "Just don’t think too long, alright? Chances like this come once in a lifetime."

Leslie keeps his mouth shut as they cross the studio, all the way until they’re in his trailer and Nicolette slams the door behind her, leaning against it and glaring at him. "What was that in there?"

Leslie shrugs out of his suit jacket and falls to the couch. "David’s nothing more than a used car salesman, selling me snake oil out of the back of his truck."

"Stop mixing your metaphors. It isn’t cute."

"Wasn’t meant to be."

"And neither are actors with mid-life crises. You know what happens to those actors? They end up in rehab centers in the Alps or secluded huts on the coast of Thailand, never to be heard from again."

Leslie closes his eyes and drops his head to the back of the couch. "Honestly, that doesn’t sound so bad."

"Say that again a couple months from now. You’ll be so well rested you’ll be begging for a guest appearance on the Real Housewives of Orange County."

"I’ll never be that well rested." Leslie stops, rethinks, shrugs. "Not without chemical interference."

"That can be arranged." Her tone is clipped, sharp, edged. She's tired of having this conversation – they've been having it on and off again for almost a decade now. Since he got off the plane in LA for a one-episode guest spot on _CSI_ and never left. She's been with him the whole way.

He softens his voice, says truthfully, "Besides, I’m not that kind of tired."

She sighs, sitting gracefully on the arm of the couch. "You’re not the only one to have felt this way, you know. You’ve been on this show for eight years, it’s normal to feel a little lost now that it’s coming to an end."

Leslie doesn’t open his eyes as he admits, quietly, carefully, the words pulled out of him in pieces. "There is no album. I haven’t been able to write a single word."

"I know."

Leslie’s eyes fly open and he turns his head. "You know?"

She shrugs. "I’m your best friend. Of course I knew."

"Oh." He frowns. "Then why do you want me to take The Voice gig?"

"Because I know you. The minute you get away from this place, go on a long vacation somewhere beautiful and quiet and peaceful, you’ll find your creativity. You always do."

"Maybe," Leslie admits, reluctantly, even though it sounds like the most obvious lie he’s ever said. Just thinking about it - the album and the pressure to make this one good, unique, as important as his first album, nine years old now, the album that put him on the map in the first place - makes his mind ache with exhaustion. 

"In the meantime, keep this little conversation between us, yeah? No one needs to know what they don’t need to know." She flashes him a sweet smile, presses a kiss to his cheek, and is gone before she can see how little, for the first time since they’ve met, he believes her.

***

"To 8 great years."

"To 8 years."

"To _Brothers_."

Leslie tips back his glass, swallowing it in one sip. He’s already given his speech and said his good byes, before the party slipped into the sloppy side of the evening. "To _Brothers_ ," he repeats, as he searches for Nicolette in the crowd.

"Hey," he speaks in her ear, loud enough for her to hear him. "I’m gonna head out."

"Already?" She frowns and starts to tip. He catches her elbow.

"Yeah. I’ve got work to do. For the album."

Her eyes light up. "Oh, yes, the album. That’s important."

He laughs. "You’ll make my excuses?"

"Yes, yes, go." She pushes at his shoulder and he sneaks out of the party. 

He takes one last walk through the sets. He’ll miss his wonderful cast, the familiarity and ease of playing this character, but he's not sad to walk away. It feels like the end of an era that should have ended years ago. 

He doesn’t pause as he leaves the studio, and when he gets home, he goes straight to his small basement recording studio. The walls are covered in soundproof cushioning and the walls lined with the best recording equipment money could buy eight years ago. It was the first thing Leslie bought when his album went platinum and he signed this TV deal. 

It had felt so real then. The American dream wrapped up in a check with more zeros than Leslie’s parents saw in a year. He had made it, and nothing could ever un-make it. Or so he had thought, when he was young and ambitious and sure that the feeling would last forever.

A forever of fans screaming his name and steady paychecks and doing what he loves under the umbrella of a big media company with endless pockets. Forever of ignoring this feeling, niggling at the back of his mind, that this wasn’t what he set out to do when he was young and naive and thought he could take on the world with his voice and his body. It hadn’t seemed such a large price to pay for the fame and notoriety. It hadn’t seemed such a large price to pay for a platform he could use, someday, to make this nation a better place for men and women who look like him.

It seems like a monstrous price to pay now.

His bank account is full. He has an adoring fan base fawning over the sanitized version of himself that Nicolette puts out on Twitter and the morning shows. He has his platform, but it all comes with caveats, shackles to Matt and the Network and his manager and the politically acceptable way of talking about racism and gender equality.

Every time he sits down to write, he feels caught in those shackles. There’s a wall in his brain that speaks suspiciously like the Network execs, spouting emotionless, flat phrases so that after each writing session the page is filled with clichés and sanitized rhymes.

Leslie rips the page out of his notebook, balling it into his fist and making a perfect basket.

He checks the clock. It’s barely 5 am in LA, but that means it’s past 8 am in New York. Renee will have already made breakfast and seen the kids off for school. Leslie grabs his phone.

"Hey little brother."

"I hate that nickname."

"I know." He can hear her grin through the phone. It’s loud where she is, the sounds of commuter subway traffic filtering through. It pulls at something in Leslie’s chest. "Why do you think I still use it?"

"I don’t miss you at all."

"Sure." She scoffs. "I believe you."

"Probably shouldn’t. All I say is lies."

She laughs. Leslie’s missed her laugh.

"So, that offer you made months ago? For tickets. Is that still on the table?"

She pauses for a moment, and Leslie’s worried she’s going to refuse. But when she speaks, she sounds more pleasantly surprised than anything. "Of course it is. Just text me the details and I’ll have everything ready."

***

Leslie’s missed New York. The smell of roasting chestnuts on the streets and urine under them. The sounds of sirens and paint bucket drummers and music everywhere he turns, coming out of portable stereos and iPhones in cups and groups of musicians on every stoop.

Leslie’s missed New York, but he hasn’t missed New York weather. He pulls his sleeves over his sun-weakened fingers and hunches his shoulders against the snow flurries as he turns the corner at 8th and steps into a wind tunnel. He’s shivering as he ducks into Sardi’s, and he stands there, shaking and rubbing his elbows, until Renee steps through the door and into his embrace.

"Welcome to New York." She’s grinning as she pulls away, her hair perfect under a felt headband and her cheeks pink, the only remnant of the cold. "You look miserable."

"Only a little," Leslie admits, as she leads him to their table.

She looks good, dressed in jeans and a long sweater, her smile splitting her face. She’s the least-ordinary woman he’s ever met, and he loses himself in memories of her in lycra pants and leopard knee boots. She was young, but he was younger, in awe of her talent and her poise. It was his first Broadway show. It wasn’t hers, and she took him under her wing immediately.

"What?" She asks, peering over her menu, suspicious and threatening.

It’s a little like coming home, what with the sibling ribbing and vague sense of judgment. "I was just thinking that things don’t change much."

She scoffs. "What are you talking about? Just look at you, big shot TV star and recording artist." She frowns, dropping her menu so she can look closer at his folded arms on the table. "What is that you’re wearing?"

He subconsciously shakes his sleeve over the watch. "It’s a Rolex. A 100th episode present."

She raises an eyebrow. "An expensive present."

"From the Network," he chastises.

"Well, whoever it’s from, it’s gaudy as hell."

"To each his own."

"Sure." Her voice is smart and sharp, like warm honey over those parts in his brain worn raw and aching.

"Besides," he tells her, "what about you? A hit Broadway show. I can’t turn my head without seeing your face on a Billboard or a magazine."

She flushes. "I can’t wait for you to see it. Leslie, it’s- Remember how we used to talk? When we’d sign autographs outside the Nederlander and kids would tell us how inspiring it was to see actors who look like them on stage?"

"Yeah," Leslie agrees. When he closes his eyes, he can feel the chill of the night, the itch of the wool scarf around his neck, the warmth all around him as a young black girl handed him a CD and said that she wanted to play Mimi one day because she could relate to Mimi’s story. Every part of it. 

"This show, Leslie, it’s right out of our dreams." She laughs, her voice a little breathless. "I can’t wait for you to see it."

The waitress drops their food on the table, and they eat as she tells him about her kids and he fills her in on Nicolette and his failed attempt to pick up surfing last summer. But when their plates are gone, she crosses her legs and leans forward, pressing her hand over his.

"How are you, really? You sounded - strange - on the phone, and now you look-"

"Devastatingly handsome?"

"Always." Her smile’s a little smaller. "But also a little sad?"

"I’m-" Leslie struggles for words and comes up with, "struggling with a bit of writer’s block," before he can stop himself.

"I think I know someone who can help with that." She pats his hand and shrugs into her jacket. "But now I’ve gotta run to rehearsals. I’ll see you after the show?"

"Break a leg," he calls after her.

She leaves him with the check, for old time’s sake.

***

The usher leads Leslie to his seat near the front of the stage. He’s barely seated before there’s a soft tittering behind him and he turns to see a group of girls pointing in his direction.

"Oh my god, look, it’s Leslie Odom, Jr."

"He’s so dreamy in _Brothers_."

"His album was the first one I ever I bought with my own money."

"Shh, shh, he’s looking at us."

He smiles at them. "Would you like an autograph?"

They giggle and look at each other, before shouting "yes" in unison and holding out four copies of the same gold and black program. He signs them all as the lights flicker and hands them back with just enough time to settle in his seat before the opening chords.

Aaron Burr walks on stage and Leslie is transfixed.

***

"Lin-Manuel Miranda."

Leslie takes his hand. "Leslie-"

"Odom, Jr. I know." Lin keeps his fingers tightly around Leslie’s. His palm is warm and sweaty and he’s still dressed in his costume. "When your album came out, I stayed up all night, listening to it over and over again until I knew the lyrics by heart."

Lin’s hair is piled in a messy bun on the top of his head and he still has a smudge of make-up around his ear.

"Your songs really spoke to the experience I remembered growing up. In Washington Heights, not Philly, but, same same." Lin pauses, finally pulling his hand away so that he can hunch his shoulders, his eyes bright and wide in the florescent lighting. "Not that I know where you grow up, or have read your autobiography or anything."

He speaks quickly, tripping over his words as if he can’t breath again until they’re all out. Standing backstage, still half dressed in Hamilton’s clothes, _Hurricane_ still replaying in Leslie’s brain, Leslie’s utterly charmed. 

"You remind me of him."

Lin’s still a bit flushed with embarrassment, darker where his lashes flutter quickly against his cheeks. "Who?"

"Hamilton."

Leslie watches as Lin’s flush transitions from embarrassed to indignant. "I don’t know if I should be pleased or offended."

Renee pokes her head out of her dressing room. "Pleased. Definitely pleased."

Leslie closes his eyes as he mouth 'subtle' in her direction. When he opens them again, though, Lin’s tilted his head, looking shy and small as he gazes up at Leslie, as if he’s worried that it might be the latter. Like he’s worried that his play hasn’t rocked Leslie’s world of its - admittedly weakened - foundations. Like he’s worried that Leslie was able to take his eyes off Lin’s eyes all night, strutting and buzzing and flying across that stage.

"Not fair for you to be the only fan here tonight, is it?"

Lin's eyes close briefly, and he seems, for the first time since Leslie met him a few hours ago, at a loss for words.

He’s rescued, though, by the thundering of footsteps down the stairs as Chris Jackson rounds the corner. "The wolves are getting rowdy. Are you guys ready or-?" He stops, taking in Leslie and immediately stepping forward with his hand out. "Wow, Leslie Odom."

"Live and in the flesh." Leslie takes his hand. "You, man, wow, you were incredible out there."

Chris shakes his head. "This show never stops amazing me." He pulls his phone out of pocket. "Can I take a pic? My son’s gonna go wild when I tell him about this."

Leslie laughs, but he allows himself to be pulled into a selfie, and then Chris pulls back, finally getting a look around. "You’re not even undressed yet. Never mind, the children are restless. We doing this or what?"

"Ahh-" Lin glances at Leslie out of the corners of his eyes.

"Sorry, that was rude of me." Chris turns to Leslie. "Wanna come freestyle? We do this every Friday night - the rest of the guys would love to meet you."

"I don’t really freestyle."

"Ehh, they won’t mind." Chris grins, and turns before Leslie can answer.

"Nah," Renee agrees, grabbing Leslie’s wrist and pulling him up the stairs. "The cast loves a good roasting after a show."

***

"Okay, okay." Lin steps into the center of the room, waving his hands until the room quiets, the ruffles at the cuffs of his costume flapping against his wrist. "Are we gonna do this or what?"

There’s a cheer, a couple of whistles, and at least one catcall to "take if off Lin."

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Oak. Get up here, you’re going first."

Oak is twice the size of Leslie, with a friendly, unassuming smile even as he grumbles at Lin and takes his position in the middle of the dressing room. "Okay, give me your best."

Everyone starts yelling out words. Lin chooses "pineapple," and starts laying down a beat. Oak rolls his eyes, but he grabs the microphone that Chris hands him and starts rapping.

Leslie watches, a little anxious and a lot terrified, as they make their way around the room, throwing out words and passing off the rap like a game of duck-duck-goose. Leslie’s freestyled a bit, growing up in Phili with his friends after school. They’d sit around the bleachers, drinking cheap vodka out of paper bags and talking about all the things they were going to do when they got outta there. Leslie was never very good. Mostly, his friends would laugh and only ask him to do it as punishment.

So as the mic gets to him, he tries to step back, make his way around to the other side of the room in the hope that they’ll forget he hasn’t gone yet. Renee, though, catches him, tugging him into the circle and giving him "house."

He holds up his hands, and Lin is there, his eyes still big and bright and more shades of brown than Leslie’s ever seen before. "You don’t have to," he tries, stepping forward.

Leslie, though, can’t bare the thought of letting this slip away, this feeling he gets when Lin’s attention is all on him. It’s intoxicating and new and Leslie takes the mic, closing his eyes and searching for anything, anything, to say behind the walls and the shackles and the blank canvas that has, lately, become his creativity.

_Stepping off the stage tonight still in this blouse_  
I hear the applause ringing in my ears  
Like this really is Hamilton’s house 

Leslie opens his eyes to see Lin standing next to him, another microphone in hand, eyes bright with laughter as he looks at Leslie and asks him to follow. Leslie's pretty sure, in this moment, that he'd follow Lin anywhere.

"Original," Chris call out.

Lin’s shirt is open to his bellybutton, billowing out of his black velvet pants and gaping around the low-cut collar of his undershirt. His skin is flushed, warm with exertion and humor, and Leslie can’t look away as Lin catches his eyes and doesn’t look away.

_Since I was young I’ve listened to music like it was biblical_  
Now here I am, having reached what everyone says is the pinnacle  
Surrounded by this cast, to prove that diversity on Broadway isn’t mythical  
This isn’t the top, this isn’t the end, this is political  
I won’t stop, I can’t stop, this is unequivocal  
Because I am an original 

Something breaks in Leslie, tearing down those walls in his head as Lin steps through them and, as Daveed yells out "horizon," Leslie steps forward.

Leslie stumbles through it, slow and uncoordinated. His brain gives him words slowly, like it’s rusty from misuse.

_When I was 21 I moved to LA, started memorizing_  
20 pages of script a day, I was flying  
Thought it would never end, thought I was done with things that were surprising  
But now I’m like Jack Torrance in the Shining  
Not sure what’s beyond the horizon 

But he does get through it.

The room lets out a few whoops and he feels Renee at his side, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

"You know," Lin says, still standing in the middle room and staring at him, "that really was terrible."

"I know." Leslie laughs. "Never ask me to do that again."

***

Leslie settles into his seat on the flight back to LA, pulling out his notebook.

His phone buzzes as they’re pulling away from the gate.

_Hey, its Lin._

_Miranda._

Leslie must smile stupidly, because the flight attendant kneels next to his seat and offers him a sympathetic look. "Sorry, sir, but you need to turn your phone off for takeover."

Leslie nods as his phone buzzes again.

_Renee gave me ur #. Hope its ok_

He keeps smiling as he turns it off and reaches into his bag for a pen.

***

_check ur email_

_i sent smthng_

Leslie attaches his recording to the e-mail to Lin and sends it.

While a few lines of freestyle hasn’t quite cured his writer’s block, it has sent him in the right direction. The first few weeks he's back in LA, he spends his time writing and dodging calls from both Nicolette and the Studio. Or, at least, trying to do all those things.

In actually, he passes a lot of time in his basement studio, playing old jazz tunes on the piano. He remembers being a kid, spending his Sundays at his grandparents listening to records. His grandmother would spend the afternoon in the kitchen. She'd be irritable and frustrated, and his grandfather would take her flour-covered hand and get her to dance with him across the flashes of sunlight on the worn carpet. She'd smile, soft and quiet and all for his grandfather. 

He's been searching all his life for music that can make someone smile like that.

He hasn’t found it, not yet, but he has found a riff. Somewhere between his grandfather’s jazz and contemporary R&B. It's small, but it's the beginning of something - a song, maybe even an entire album.

He sends it to Lin and the Studio before he can second-guess himself.

***

Lin writes backs within the hour.

_!!!!!!_

_@rehearsal but call me 2nite_

***

The Studio gets back to him that afternoon with a dinner invitation.

"They’re going to want a track list," Nicolette warns him, standing in his kitchen and applying her make-up as he slips into a suit jacket.

"I’d like a track list, too." He shrugs, pouring them both a glass of wine. He has the feeling they’re both going to need it.

"And a demo. Or two. Or four."

"I sent what I have."

"You sent a few bars."

"It took two years to write those bars."

Her face softens and she pats his arm. "I know. I’m just saying, be prepared for the worst, okay?"

She’s not wrong. They’re barely finished with the appetizer when the Studio suit - they sent David, with his full-buttoned shirt and skinny tie and thousand-dollar leather belt - folds his hands in his lap and fixes Leslie with his most professionally-sympathetic stare.

"We received your recording."

Leslie nods.

"I’m not going to lie to you, we were expecting something a little more-" He waves his hand, as if he’s picking his words out of the air or, more likely, the rote training video he watched when he first started. "- polished."

"It was just a sample."

"We sent the advance for this album over two years ago. The first release date was months ago." David pulls out a large manila folder. "The new release date is in May."

"May is only a few months away," Leslie splutters. Nicolette puts her hand on his forearm.

David hands the folder to Nicolette. "That’s why we’ve put together a schedule. We expect regular demo deliveries. The first three by the beginning of February, then one each week after that."

Nicolette opens the folder and raises an eyebrow. "And if we don’t meet the schedule?"

David looks at Leslie. "The Studio has put a lot of faith and a large monetary commitment behind you, Mr. Odom. If you can’t meet our deadlines, we expect both of those things to be returned."

Nicolette crosses her manicured nails over the folder and offers, in her most coquettish voice. "Surely, David, we can come to some sort of compromise-"

"We’ve been very patient, Ms. Robinson. We’ve done all the compromising we’re prepared to do."

"David-"

"I understand," Leslie interrupts. "Thank you for your patience, David. I’ll honor your schedule."

"Thank you." David stands, drops a number of bills on the table, and pauses before he leaves. "And do try to write something a little more radio-friendly, would you? We weren’t impressed with the clip you sent."

"Well," Nicolette splutters once David’s gone. "That went-"

"Exactly as you predicted," Leslie admits with a sigh. "I’m gonna call us a cab."

She follows, quietly, the manila folder tucked under her arm. She shivers a little in the winter LA chill. "You know," she says, finally, "they’re full of shit, right?"

Leslie shrugs.

"That riff is the most honest thing you’ve written in eight years."

Leslie turns his head so she can’t feel him blush. "Yeah?"

She nods, biting her lip, and he can see her debating telling him what’s on her mind. She’s never held back before, though, and she takes a step closer, dropping her voice. "You haven’t been happy for years, and I’ve barely recognized you these last few months. I don’t know what happened in New York, but whatever it was, you’ve been yourself since you got back. I don’t want to lose you again."

"You won’t. I promise."

"Okay." The cab pulls up and she pushes the manila folder into his chest. "I’m going out. You, go write."

He laughs and calls himself a second cab.

***

"You’re first on Tommy’s shit list," Lin says in greeting.

Leslie curls into the chair on his balcony, bundled up against the January chill with a mug of tea and whiskey. It’s 3 am in LA, the sun just starting to rise in NY. He can hear Lin’s fancy cappuccino machine whirring in the background.

"What’d I do?"

"You sent me that piece of music," Lin says, like it’s an accusation. "You didn’t expect me to just be able to function after that, did you?"

"Well-" Leslie feels something hard and anxious loosen in his chest.

"I played it for Lac and he agrees." Lin pauses, his voice losing a little of its bravado. "I, ahh, hope that’s okay? I probably should have asked, but, it was exactly what we’ve been looking for and I had to share it before I burst with excitement."

Leslie takes a long sip of tea while he tries to get his footing. "Um, yeah, it’s okay. I mean, it’s not really done yet, so don’t go putting it on the Internet or anything, but-"

"Good, good. I’d hate to have over-stepped my bounds already."

"No, no, it’s just nice to hear that someone liked it. The Studio wasn’t impressed."

Lin scoffs, then hisses. "Sorry, dripped coffee on my hand."

"You okay?"

"Fine, just a little burned. Listen, don’t listen to the Studio, they don’t know innovation from dollars. And this- this riff is something totally different. New, unique. I feel inspired."

Leslie wants to say, needs to say, _you inspired me first_ , but he doesn’t know how.

"I’m heading to the Subway - can you still hear me?" The noise level increases ten-fold, and Leslie can hear the sounds of New York in the early morning, street sweepers and stores opening and car horns. 

"Yeah."

Lin’s voice is muffled for a moment, then he comes back, speaking quickly. "Anyway, so, I probably really have over-stepped this time, but, I was just so excited and, anyway, I wrote a verse?" 

He says it like it’s a question that Leslie has no idea how to answer.

"Leslie?"

"Still here."

"You don’t have to use it. I mean, it isn’t even any good yet, I just thought, maybe, I could sing on it with you? If you’re amenable. Of course, if you want your own track, it’s yours."

Leslie rubs his forehead and squints out at the hills. In the distance, he thinks he can just make out the Hollywood sign.

"Shit, it’s too much, isn’t it? Lac warned me not to start before I talked to you, but I woke up in the middle of the night and that riff was on repeat in my head and I just - my brain hurt until I got the verse onto the page. Just say the word and I’ll destroy it. We’ll never speak of it again."

"Wait, wait, don’t do that," Leslie says, quickly, because even though he has no idea what’s going on, he knows that destroying something Lin wrote would be sacrilege. "I’m sorry, I don’t- Step back. Explain."

Lin stops on the street; Leslie can hear it in the way the wind whistles through the speaker. "The Mixtape. I thought this was for-"

"The Mixtape?"

"The Hamilton Mixtape." Lin sounds so sure, then, "I did tell you about that?"

"No."

"Yes, I did, I- I really didn't?"

"Nope."

"Oh." He laughs a little guiltily. "My bad?"

Leslie laughs. "So, are you gonna tell me or-?"

"I’m compiling a Hamilton Mixtape. It’s some demos, some covers, some remixes. I asked - I was going to ask - you to work on _Wait For It_. When I wrote that song, it was inspired by your album, and I knew from the moment it was scored that it was perfect for your voice."

"I’m flattered."

"That riff really wasn’t for your remix?" Lin is contrite and a little hopeful.

"Uh uh."

"It should be."

"Lin, seriously, I’m incredibly flattered. When I saw your show- _Wait For It_ is one of the best songs I’ve ever heard. I cried the whole way through the first time I heard it. I still do."

"Then say you’ll do it. Please?"

"I-" Leslie closes his eyes, thinks about the manila folder still sitting on his kitchen counter and the six-figure advance in his bank account. "I want to, I really do."

"I sense a but?"

"But I have the Studio breathing down my neck and the Network right after them. I have to get an album out in just a few months and I’m still struggling with the writing block and I don’t have any music to spare." Leslie’s entire body thrums with the desire to say 'yes.' Instead, he adds, "Besides, it’s just a riff, it isn’t anything yet."

"It’s an incredible riff."

"Thank you."

"If you ever change your mind-"

"You’ll be the first to know."

"Okay." Lin pauses, then, "I feel like an idiot now."

"You shouldn’t."

"I just- I do this, sometimes. I get too excited, and too involved too quickly."

_I want you to be involved_ Leslie thinks.

"My train’s here, so I’ve gotta go."

Lin hangs up before Leslie can say anymore.

***

From: l.m.miranda@gmail.com  
To: leslie.odom@universalmusic.com  
Subject: Overstepping. Again.

You probably don't want this email, but in for a penny, in for a pound and all that. Besides, I'd already written the verse, so- My verse of your Wait For It Remix attached. 

Your (ever hopeful) obedient servant,  
Lin-Manuel 

Leslie doesn’t open the attachment. He doesn’t delete the e-mail, either.

***

Leslie spends the next few weeks slogging through the process of writing mediocre songs. They're generic, musically bland, lyrically uninspired, and on time. 

The Studio loves them.

They send them back to Nicolette with a few notes -

"Cut 14 seconds from track 3 for radio."

"Add synth to track 1. Perfect first single."

"Less pop culture references in track 4 to increase the album's shelf-life."

\- and a fruit basket.

***

"Hey son, how are things?" Leslie’s dad calls, chipper and awake.

"Fine," he says, mid-yawn.

"Did I wake you?"

"No- yes, but it’s fine. I was up late recording."

"Oh," he sounds more surprised than Leslie’s comfortable with. "How’s it coming?"

"It’s-" Leslie fishes for anything other than _ehh_ or _half-assed_ or _passable_. "The Studio loves it."

"Good, good. So, look, I know you’re extremely busy, but your mom’s birthday is coming up and I’m calling to see if-"

"I’d love to come," Leslie interrupts.

"-we’re throwing a party and I know she’d love it if you’d be there." He pauses. "Okay, well, send your flight details and we’ll be there to pick you up."

Leslie’s already pulling up the Studio’s travel agency in his contacts.

***

Philadelphia’s cold and wet in late March. The ground is starting to thaw in puddles of dirty snow and last fall’s treasures, gum wrappers and condoms and crushed soda cans uncovered after a long winter. Leslie trudges through it in rain boots, thin gloves, and a thick black scarf that covers half his face.

His mom is ecstatic to have him. Mostly, he thinks, to defer attention at her party. His mother is a beautiful, understated woman who’s dedicated her life to other people. She appreciates the rare focus on her, but after the singing and the candles and his dad’s speech, Leslie knows she’s happy to stick to the sidelines, her arm in his father’s, smiling brightly as her guests have a good time.

Leslie’s pretty sure that’s the only reason she doesn’t pester him until a few days in. But then she sits him down at the kitchen table as she prepares a dinner of party leftovers.

"Nicolette says your album’s almost done," she starts.

Leslie groans. "I really wish you two wouldn’t talk so much."

"How else am I supposed to know what’s going on with you?" She raises an eyebrow and that’s all it takes for his shoulders to sink.

He pours them both a glass of wine, and leans against the counter to be nearer to her as he admits, "it’s not very good, mama."

"I know." Leslie chokes and she swats his hand with a long wooden spoon. "Nicolette told me. You should be nicer to that girl."

"Yeah," Leslie agrees.

"You’re going to produce this album?"

Leslie shrugs, reaching over to grab the bottle and refill his glass. "I made a contract with the Studio."

She nods. "Your papa and I raised you to put your name on things you’re proud of."

He closes his eyes. "It’s not that simple."

"Of course it is," she scoffs. She wipes her hands on a dishcloth, then nods at the three warm plates on the counter. "Make yourself useful and bring those to the table."

***

The house is quiet when Leslie wakes up, but there are soft sounds filtering through his half-open window, slamming doors and cars back-firing and teenagers fighting. It’s late, that sweet spot between late night and early morning when time stands still.

Leslie sneaks downstairs, careful not to wake his parents. The living room is the same as he remembers it when he was a kid, rushing through it on his way to dance class and jazz club and play rehearsal. It was busy, hectic, just as Leslie likes it. If Leslie closes his eyes, he’s that child again, the entire world in front of him for the taking, however he wants it.

Leslie wanted it, all of it, and he was so sure he knew how to get it.

At 17, he hugged his parents good bye and left for New York. There’s a photo album on the bookcase full of photos from when his parents came up to see the show. Leslie pulls it out, runs his finger over the pictures of himself in varying stages of make-up and dress. In every one he’s surrounded by his Rent cast mates; in every one he’s smiling, looking as comfortable in his skin as a 17 year-old can be. 

Leslie doesn’t feel half that comfortable now.

The last photo is of him and Renee. She’s still dressed in Mimi’s ripped fish-nets and fake fur coat, and Leslie’s in his ensemble ripped jeans and crop-top. It’s a candid, her hand on his chest as she laughs. His head is thrown back in laughter, his mouth open so big that his eyes crinkles.

Leslie leaves the photo album open in his lap as he reaches for his phone.

"What?" Nicolette snaps, her voice crusted with sleep.

"Sorry to wake you."

She groans, and he can hear her turn on the light and sit up. "Well, I’m up now, so-?"

"I’m going to delete the demos."

"Pardon?" She’s much more awake now. "Leslie, the album comes out in six weeks."

"Pull it." Leslie fingers the edge of the photo. "Return the advance."

"That’s - that’s an awful lot of money."

"I wrote the first album on less, I’ll be fine."

"And what do I tell the Studio?"

Leslie takes a deep breath. "Tell them that I’m writing my album, on my schedule. It’s going to sound a lot like that riff I sent a few months ago. If they’re okay with that, I’d still like them as my label."

"I don’t know-"

"If you don’t," Leslie shrugs, "I’ll find someone else."

"This is a huge decision. Sleep on it. Please?"

"Sure," he agrees. "But I’m not gonna change my mind."

He bids her good night - "morning," she argues, bitterly - and pulls up his email. He finds Lin’s email and opens the attachment.

***

_do u remember calling last night?_ Nicolette texts the next morning.

_yes_

_i stand by everything_

***

"Leslie? Hey." Chris is in full dress and he pulls up the ruffles on his shirt so that he can grab Leslie’s hand and pull him into a half-hug. "What are you doing here?"

"I was in town, thought I’d stop by."

Next to him, the security guard tightens her shoulders. "Do you know this man?"

"Yeah, he’s good people," Chris vouches. 

The security guard still looks skeptical, but she stands aside and Leslie slips inside.

"Thanks," he says, as Chris wraps his arm around Leslie’s shoulders and pulls him into the theater. "I think she was going to make me wait outside for the whole show."

"Good thing I like to get some intermission air," Chris agrees. "You should have called ahead- would have made sure there was a ticket waiting."

"It’s more of a down-low kinda thing."

"Oh." Chris raises an eyebrow. "Does Lin know you’re coming?"

Leslie shuffles his feet nervously. "Nah, um, we haven’t talked much recently."

Chris grins, his whole face splitting with it. "Ahh, man, I can’t wait to see his face when he sees you here."

"Yeah, ahh," Leslie rubs the back of his neck.

The lights start to flicker and Chris takes his arm from Leslie’s shoulders so he can button the top of his shirt. "That’s my queue, but, there’s some space in standing room if you wanna see the second act?"

"Next time. I think I’ll just wait here, if that’s okay?"

"Sure, yeah, course." Chris points up the stairs. "Lin’s dressing room is on the next landing."

He winks and Leslie pushes his shoulder. "Break a leg."

Chris gives him the finger, still grinning, as he jogs to meet the rest of the cast.

***

Leslie hears him before he sees him. He’s wearing his full black velvet regalia, walking backwards as he talks excitedly to Renee. She sees him first and stops in the doorway, her eyes wide and her cheeks flushed.

Lin stops mid-sentence - "what? Another prank? I’m not gonna fall for the bubbles again-" - and looks behind him. He freezes.

Leslie stands slowly from Lin’s dressing chair. "Hi."

Lin visibly swallows. "Hi."

"Well," Renee looks from Leslie to Lin, then back at Leslie. "I’ll leave you to it," she quips, and closes the door behind her.

Lin plays with his sleeves, fiddling with the hot fabric and pulling at his neck until the ties loosen and fall around his shoulders. He can’t meet Leslie’s eyes.

Leslie steps forward, pulling his phone out of his pocket and holding it up. "I have something I’d like you to listen to."

Lin talks. He uses words for a living, pulls them and twists them and wraps them around himself, as effective as a brick wall. Leslie can’t - doesn’t - give him time to speak, though, as he presses play on the demo. 

It’s rough, recorded through his tinny laptop speakers in his parents’ echoey living room. The only accompaniment is a slightly-out-of-tune keyboard that’s been stored in their basement since he moved to LA. It’s raw and rough, edges of Leslie’s soul threaded between the riff that Lin inspired with his own soul.

Leslie watches it play out on Lin’s face. Reservation bursting into a shy, careful smile. When Leslie raps Lin’s verse, Lin gives up the pretense and laughs, his smile reaching all the way to his eyes.

Leslie steps forward, watching him, giving him long, slow moment to push Leslie away. Lin sways forward, though, until there’s only inches between them, letting his eyes slip closed.

"I was so lost when I met you," Leslie murmurs, wrapping his fingers around the edges of Lin’s velvet jacket.

"Your voice inspires me." Lin’s eyes are wet, and he blinks his lashes. "I would write arias for it if you’d let me."

Leslie laughs. "Let’s start with _Wait For It_ , alright?"

Lin chuckles a little ruefully. "I can live with that."

"And dinner? If-" Leslie closes his eyes, not wanting to see Lin’s face if he pushes him away. "If you want."

Lin swallows, licks his dry lips. "Yeah, ahh, that would be nice."

***

**Epilogue**

"Leslie, Leslie!"

"Will you take a selfie with me?"

"Leslie Odom, I love you!"

Leslie looks next to him in the limo, where Lin's futzing with his tie. Leslie reaches over to straighten it for him. "Ready?"

Lin nods. "A few crowds don't intimidate me." Which is mostly a lie. His entire body is buzzing as they climb out of the limo and step onto the red carpet, but when Leslie takes his hand, he smiles and eases.

"Leslie, Leslie," an EW reporter calls out, and Leslie heads towards him. "What do you have to say about this album?"

"It's brilliant," Lin jumps in, before Leslie can answer.

Leslie laughs, gives his best camera smile. "I've been working on it for a long time. 8 years," he jokes, ruefully. "This album is the kind of music I want to be making – it's humbling that people have been responding to it so well."

"Nah." Lin wraps his arm around Leslie's back. "He's too modest. Wait 'til you hear his song for the Hamilton Mixtape. You'll be blown away."

"Oh, we're waiting. Is there a release date that you'd like to share with us?"

"Not yet. Soon," Lin promises.

"Lin-Manuel, did you have a hand in the songs on this album?" The reporter asks.

Leslie pulls Lin close, and answers for him. "This entire album is inspired by him. So if you hate it, he's to blame."

Lin laughs. "He gets all the credit for this one. Maybe next time he'll let me write a few songs for him."

"And what are your next plans? Are you going on tour? Your fans are dying to know."

Leslie shrugs. "I will, but I'm not sure when and I'm not sure what it'll look like yet. Lin's got some work to do in London, so we're headed there for the next few months. I'll reevaluate after that."

Lin steps closer, and Leslie gives him a gentle, close-mouthed kiss.

The reporter snaps a picture, and Leslie's pretty sure it'll end up on the cover of EW Weekly. He can't bring himself to care.

**Author's Note:**

> Yay authors have been revealed! Comments and kudos are like air and water, so please leave them. Or come chat with me on [Tumblr](http://stainyourhands.tumblr.com/) \- my inbox is open at any and all times.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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